A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  Quick steps sounded across the hall below, then up the stairs; heavy and confident, not the stride of the poor fellow who admitted us. I wondered if it was Newcourt returned, or even Arlington himself. Instead a great black shadow, a giant, wide chest draped in flowing cloak.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing?’ the man challenged, eyes glittering perspicacity and cunning. He swept off his hat, revealing a huge, bony face, long, wide nose and big lips. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to the top of his ear.

  ‘We are King’s men.’ I stepped forwards. ‘Who are you? No one is supposed to be here.’

  ‘I know him. You do not.’ He advanced upon the corpse and crouched next to its head, cupping the back of it in one giant hand. Then he gripped the base of the bottle with his right hand and ripped it loose, holding it aloft against the sunlight. ‘Brandevin,’ he declared. ‘With Burke’s mark upon it. Which of you forced it down his throat?’

  ‘Us?’ I exclaimed. ‘We only just got here.’

  Dowling wiped his hands on his knees and crouched next to the stranger. ‘We are here to find out who killed him, good fellow. Who are you and what are you doing here?’

  The big man stood slowly, eyeing the stains upon Dowling’s skin and clothes. ‘Never mind.’ He tossed the bottle in the air and caught it by the neck. ‘You may go now.’

  ‘We may go?’ I repeated, indignant. ‘We are taking the body back to St Albans at Lord Arlington’s request.’

  The man smiled without humour, mouth stretched wider than a man’s hand. ‘Arlington, you say.’

  ‘Lord Arlington.’

  He threw the bottle at my chest and I caught it, too late to consider where it had been. ‘Come to cover his tracks, have you?’

  ‘We have asked you twice already, sir.’ Dowling took the bottle from me. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Find out for yourself.’ He surveyed the disfigured face once more, then inspected the rest of the body, paying special attention to the penis. Then he grunted and turned his attention to the pile of clothes. He took the hat in one hand, the silken shirt with the other. ‘His clothes.’ He tossed them back to the floor. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Find out who killed him,’ I replied.

  ‘And who will that be?’ he sneered.

  ‘Who do you think?’

  The man stepped towards me like he would pick me up and throw me from the gallery, then placed a thick forefinger upon my forehead. ‘Rest assured,’ he said, hoarse. ‘Rest assured.’ He tapped me hard, then smiled again, turned and marched back the way he came.

  I leant over the balcony and watched the top of his huge head disappear, black hair with streaks of white. ‘Who in God’s name was that?’

  Dowling shook his head. ‘A friend of Wharton’s is what he said.’ He lifted the bottle to his nose and sniffed. ‘Brandevin.’ He passed it to me. ‘You agree?’

  I held the tall cylindrical neck between thumb and forefinger, imagining that some of Wharton’s flesh must still reside within it. The bulbous base was mottled and cracked. I held it to my nose, but not too close. The smell was sharp and fruity. ‘Aye, brandevin, and he said it had Burke’s mark upon it.’ I turned it upside down. ‘It has no mark that I can see.’

  ‘Methinks the smell is the mark and Burke is the supplier,’ Dowling said.

  ‘Then it must be part of the shipment that Henry Burke supplied Wharton.’ I recalled Arlington’s testimony. ‘So why did he ask if it was us that forced it down his throat?’

  Dowling shrugged, wiped his palms upon his wide rump and sighed. ‘We had better get him clean and boxed,’ he said. ‘If we are to take him to St Albans today we must set off soon. We cannot fetch him in this state. They will think themselves cursed.’

  We should close his eyes, I supposed, if he had eyelids remaining. ‘How will you hide a burnt head?’

  ‘Ceruse,’ Dowling answered. ‘Undiluted. And cochineal upon his cheeks.’

  ‘He will look like a grinning harlequin.’ I stared at the blackened, corrugated head. ‘His wife will die of shock.’

  Dowling scowled. ‘We must take him to an embalmer if we can find one, and do the best possible.’

  ‘At least we might put his hat back on,’ I said.

  ‘I will go and see if our friend has ordered a coffin.’ Dowling headed off.

  ‘I will come with you.’ I hurried after him, for I had no desire to be left alone with the monstrosity that used to be Thomas Wharton.

  Chapter Three

  IF ONE SHALL FIND THE PARTY AT HOME HE WOULD SPEAK WITH

  If the Lord of the seventh house be in any of the four angles, you may conclude the party is at home with whom you would speak with.

  Dowling secured us a butcher’s cart, stained a deep enduring red, testament to a regular procession of bloody carcasses. Now the Earl lay there, wrapped in sheets and blankets, lain straight inside his coffin. I tried to ignore the sound of his body bouncing in the box as we negotiated the uneven track.

  The road north to St Albans led through the parish of St Giles, one of the worst affected by plague. These church bells pealed all day long, a ceaseless reminder to a parish already on its knees. The sky was a perfect blue, as it had been all summer, no clouds to blunt the rays of a fierce yellow sun. It was said the sun conspired with the pestilence, heating up the ground to release the poisonous miasma.

  I sat, nervous, up on the wagon next to Dowling, shirt burning against my back, praying no one would set upon us, no infected destitutes hungry for food. The best outcome would be that we solved this mystery early and convincingly. Then I might withdraw from London for the few weeks it would take for the plague to tire of itself, and return soon to more responsibility, a grander title and some money.

  Frightened faces peered from the windows of poor, mean houses, speaking of misery and bewilderment. Here the sound of cartwheels was as common at night as it was during day, for the death-carts emerged from the graveyards at dusk, to rattle about the streets in search of the newly deceased. Bearers loaded bodies onto the back of their wagons and fetched them to the plague pits, where they threw the bodies down in piles and attempted to spread them out tidy.

  ‘What did you not tell me this morning?’ Dowling mused, staring ahead.

  The cart lurched as we ran across a deep rut dried into the road. I thought of deceiving him, but had not the will. ‘There may be illness in the Willis household.’

  Dowling glanced sideways. ‘What illness?’

  ‘Dr Hedges was dining with us when he dropped dead of the pest,’ I said. ‘I dragged him to the street and told the churchwarden he died afore he reached us.’

  Dowling’s eyes stretched wide as dinner plates.

  ‘You are my confessor, Dowling, so ye may not tell anyone I told you it.’

  ‘How do you know you are not diseased, Harry?’ Dowling exclaimed. ‘They lock people behind closed doors for a reason.’

  ‘Aye,’ I agreed, ‘but not a very good reason. Hedges had walked to all parts afore he came to dinner. Any man might have been infected. For my part I kept as far from him as I could while we ate, for he was not a pleasant fellow.’

  He shook the reins, angry. ‘You sat at the same table!’

  ‘It was a long table.’

  He cast me a furious gaze and clamped his jaw closed.

  We left houses behind for open fields. The further north we rode, the more families we encountered camped by the roadside, belongings spread out beneath the bushes. Others set up residence in the fields. These were those without credentials to pass the turnpikes. They would wait for nightfall before seeking covert passage through fields and forest.

  Just before Whetstone the sharp crack of a musket shot rang out, crisp against the still morning air. Around the corner a crowd gathered, their passage blocked by a long turnpike manned by a dozen men with guns held up. One musket smoked, its owner a young fellow holding his weapon to his chest, body trembling.

  We stopped as close to th
e turnpike as we could reach, our progress blocked by a wall of thirty or forty angry men leaning forwards into the barrier.

  Dowling jumped from his seat and marched into the mob. ‘What happens here?’

  A short, strong fellow shoved him in the chest. ‘Who do you think you are?’

  Dowling shoved harder and sent him sprawling. ‘King’s man.’ The crowd parted, yielding reluctantly to the hard authority they heard in his voice. I followed close behind.

  As we emerged from the steaming rabble three muskets rose to point at Dowling and one at me. Dowling brandished his credentials. ‘King’s men heading north up the King’s road at King’s request.’

  A sentry stepped forwards, thick linen shirt hanging down above rough, loose trousers. His nose was packed with herbs, sage it appeared, which enjoyed no protective qualities I knew of. His cheeks were stuffed with something else besides. He frowned, cheeks swollen like an angry mouse.

  ‘Turn about and go back to London,’ he mumbled.

  ‘We have business in these parts,’ Dowling replied.

  He raised his rusty weapon. ‘Not today you don’t.’

  ‘We are King’s agents and you cannot deny us access to the King’s highway.’

  He scratched his head and looked back at his three colleagues. Then he glared at us. ‘Show us evidence you are King’s agents.’

  Dowling held out both our certificates of health and Arlington’s seal.

  The sentry pointed at Dowling with the tip of his stick. ‘You read it.’

  Dowling read the flowery text out loud and showed our man the seals up close.

  The man squinted through keen brown eyes. ‘How do we know you don’t carry the plague with you?’

  ‘Sir, we have the King’s authority and are protected from the plague by his holy influence,’ Dowling answered in all seriousness.

  The man surveyed the crowd behind us. ‘You have horses?’

  ‘We have a cart.’

  ‘What is in your cart?’

  ‘The body of Thomas Wharton, Earl of St Albans.’

  The sentry leapt back as though he stood on a snake. ‘He died of plague?’

  ‘No,’ Dowling assured him. ‘He died of a broken neck. There are no tokens nor buboes upon him, nor any sign of the plague. You may look for yourself.’

  ‘Fetch your cart,’ the sentry directed.

  Dowling nodded obediently and returned to the wagon while I waited at the turnpike. Our horse was large and steadfast, not averse to treading on a few feet if required. Rather like Dowling.

  The sentry licked his lips, eyeing the throng. He pulled the gate open and stood waving his arms frantically until we were through. The crowd surged behind us and another shot rang out. Three sentries leapt up onto our cart and fired into the middle of the melee while their comrades succeeded in closing the gate.

  ‘Show me this body,’ our sentry demanded, lips tight, body taut.

  ‘Have you seen the body of a man hanged by the neck?’ Dowling climbed over to the back of the cart. ‘It is a sight that stays with most men longer then they would wish.’

  ‘Show me,’ the man commanded.

  Dowling prised open the box, carefully loosened the wrappings about the corpse, then slid back the coverings from Wharton’s face. It seemed grey now. It had been white before we set off, but the ceruse and cochineal had rubbed off during the ride. The puffiness about the eyes had subsided, leaving big black patches about empty holes. The mouth hung open again, jaw bouncing loose about the body’s chest.

  The sentry put his hand over his eyes. ‘I did not ask to see the head,’ he groaned. ‘I would see the armpits and the groin for buboes, the chest for tokens.’

  Dowling obliged without further commentary. The sentry nodded weakly, easily convinced the body was clean.

  We enjoyed easier passage at the turnpikes further north, since most without credentials were turned back at Whetstone. By early afternoon we were through St Albans. I was astounded to see two doors with red crosses on Sopwell Lane, for I didn’t realise the plague penetrated so far so fast.

  We kept riding, conscious of the stares of those about us, angry and suspicious. How things changed. London was the lifeblood of this town, the destination for those who stopped to rest here. Not now.

  The Earl’s Old Palace was located but a mile in the direction of Harpenden. In truth it was but a quarter of a palace, for three-quarters of it was demolished by the previous owner who planned to build something more splendid. The Restoration thwarted his grand ambitions however, and now he languished, a pauper, somewhere out east. The Earl, on the other hand, enjoyed elevation to loftier heights, through some mysterious services to the King. Not great services, I supposed, else he would have got a whole palace.

  Narrow, latticed windows speckled the front of the house, a ready vantage from which to spy unseen. We rode slowly to the coach house, across the front of the silent building. One man laboured easily to clean the stables, where stood just two horses.

  A tall figure emerged from a door at the base of a squat little tower attached to the house. He strode towards us, a strong young man, oddly energetic amidst such dormant surroundings. ‘May I help you?’ he asked in a Scots accent. To my ear he spoke similar to Dowling, yet Dowling tensed.

  ‘We work for the King. We would talk to Lady Wharton,’ Dowling said, eyes unmoving.

  The young man eyed the rough attire of the butcher, then looked to me. Though my clothes had crumpled and become sticky, I evidently presented a more comforting aspect. The young man’s black hair lay cropped close to his scalp, his face swarthy, his eyes brown and inquisitive.

  ‘We have urgent news of the Earl.’ I showed him the thick wax seal. ‘News that cannot wait.’

  He ran a finger over the seal and scowled.

  We followed him into the tower, a dark musty passage, walls lined with oak panels, thick and warm. Black and white tiles covered the floor, worn and polished. Noiseless, save for the crashing echo of our own steps reverberating across unseen halls and spaces. Cracked paintings hung on the walls, long-forgotten faces peering out in awkward pose, the self-consciousness of moments gone, buried beneath thick layers of varnish and grime.

  We emerged from the gloom into a luminous space, where tall, foggy windows turned bright sunlight into ghostly white effervescence. Then back into the bowels of this sickly place, past a series of open doorways giving view only to faded tapestries, shrouded furniture and emptiness.

  We turned a corner into a fresh passage into which light flooded from far ahead, beneath a square stone archway. As we advanced, so the banqueting hall came into view, a magnificent structure towering above us like the inside of a cathedral. The roof was built of oak, an artful lattice of ornate carved beams. Tapestries climbed the walls from floor to the height of three men, patchworks of red and green flowers. Above the tapestries, a row of arched windows allowed the sun to burst through thick walls, bathing all in a bright, warm light. Yet none banqueted here in recent times. The several long tables that ran the width of the hall were bare and dusty. Chairs sprawled as if those that dined here last left suddenly, never to return.

  ‘My name is Conroy.’ The young fellow bowed. ‘Please wait here, gentlemen, and I will see if her ladyship is disposed to see you.’ He turned and left.

  ‘This place has about as much life about it as Wharton himself,’ I noted, sitting down.

  Dowling shook his head. ‘The Lord maketh poor, and maketh rich. He bringeth low, and lifteth up.’

  ‘The Earl was brungeth low, it seems.’

  ‘Aye,’ Dowling growled.

  I watched the sun creep from one window to another. I worried what was happening to the corpse in the afternoon heat.

  Finally she arrived, dressed in such formal elegance I understood why time dragged. Mercilessly boned, bedecked in deep-scarlet skirt and gold-braided, pale-green underskirt, she radiated a severe strain of beauty. These were not the clothes of a woman in mourning. She wore an
intricately arranged wig, a heavy burden in this hot weather. Beads of sweat erupted in small globules about the edges of the paint upon her face.

  My eyes didn’t linger, for she had with her a child as ugly as any I had seen in all my life. The bones of its head rippled like a wave, and the sockets of its eyes bulged too large. Dry raised sores covered its yellow skin and it scratched itself continuously.

  ‘Why do you stare at him?’ Lady Wharton asked with a tremor in her voice. She held my gaze, demanding an answer. I could not reply truthfully, for it would be uncivil, yet I could think of no suitable lie. Conroy glowered from where he lingered in the shadows.

  Dowling knelt and took the child’s hands. ‘Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart.’

  Not something I could have said without sticky sweetness cementing my teeth together in deathly grimace, but it seemed to satisfy Lady Wharton. She stared at Dowling with eyes and lips slightly narrowed, yet all she would see was sincerity shrouded in an unquestioning allegiance to God. Then she turned again at me. I did my best to look noble.

  ‘I understand you have come from London. My husband is not at home.’

  ‘Lady,’ Dowling spoke, sombre. ‘Hell hath enlarged herself and opened her mouth without measure.’

  ‘Hell and destruction are never full,’ she replied in a high, faint voice.

  Dowling clutched his hands together in strange anxiety. Unusually tongue-tied today, I thought. Was he intimidated by her nobility? ‘I can think of no kind way of conveying the news that we bear,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Faith cometh by hearing,’ she said.

  It seemed as if the Scots baboon was about to cry, so I decided to put him out of his misery. ‘We found your husband dead last night.’

  Dowling’s baleful stare and stiff jaw signalled a lack of gratitude.

  Lady Wharton bowed her head and clutched her white hands to her mouth. I waited for her to ask how, or when, but she said nothing at all, just stood unmoving. Her eyes stared at the floor, yet without anguish, nor even a tear.